


Nobody Compares to You

by Pixiepeekboo



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellamy Blake - Freeform, Clarke Griffin - Freeform, Couple goals, F/M, Fanfiction, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Modern AU, The 100 - Freeform, bellarke fluff - Freeform, relationship, the 100 fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23788591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixiepeekboo/pseuds/Pixiepeekboo
Summary: Clarke returns home after work to find Bellamy crashed on her couch. She decides to make him dinner. Feelings are revealed. Kisses and declarations of love happen.
Relationships: Bellarke - Relationship
Comments: 11
Kudos: 141





	Nobody Compares to You

**Author's Note:**

> So, I realized that there is a shortage of Bellarke fluff, and decided to remedy that with this. I've been catching up on The 100 in anticipation of Season 7 - AKA THE FINAL SEASON - and am terrified because some people seem to think that Bellarke won't end up being canon. I guess you could say that this is my coping mechanism. Anyway, hope you like it. :)

Clarke flings open her apartment door, announcing to the artwork hanging on the walls that she’s home. She tosses her bag to the floor and shimmies for the bedroom, already pulling out of her work clothes. She crosses the living room as she does, and doubles back at the sight of Bellamy Blake stretched out on her couch. It’s nowhere near big enough to hold him and his legs stick over one arm. He has his face smashed into the pillows. Everything about him is contorted and soft. The giggle that was on her lips dies as she glances at her phone.

  
Bellamy isn’t in the habit of crashing at her place; when he does, though, he calls first. Something must have happened with Octavia. His younger sister was always rebelling against him, since he was the only parental authority she had, and sometimes, he needed to get away from her, get away from his self appointed role as the responsible one, the adult. Clarke understood that, better than anyone else in their friend group. He has to be so tired.

  
Clarke smiles as she continues to the bedroom to change, and then heads for the kitchen. She decides to make him some comfort food, because, most likely, he hasn’t eaten today either. She gathers the ingredients for spaghetti and breadsticks and gets to work.

  
While she’s deeply submerged in the challenging art of cooking, she hears Bellamy chuff behind her. Grinning, she turns. “Hello, Sleeping Beauty,” she says.  
He’s stretching his arms over his head, and the bottom edge of his shirt lifts, revealing a sliver of the taut, muscular skin of his stomach. His sweatpants are slung low on his hips, the drawstrings untied, and it undoes her a little, makes her heart fumble in its rhythm. Her eyes snap back to his, cheeks burning. She wonders if he noticed.  
“I didn’t hear you come home, Princess,” he says. He slouches up behind her, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist and letting his head thump against her shoulder. It does not miss her that he referred to her apartment as ‘home.’ Warmth spreads through her.

  
“Hold up,” Clarke says, because this is not something that they do. Everything with them has always been about boundaries and space and not crossing beyond the territory of friends with a capital F. “Are you drunk?”

  
He snickers against her neck. The skin there prickles, and then melts when his lip brushes against it as he speaks. “Only on misery. Do you ever just get tired of being an adult?”  
With the handle of the spatula in her hand, she lifts his chin from her shoulder, and then nudges him back a foot or two, for good measure. His eyes are impossibly warm and affectionate looking at her. One side of his mouth curls upward and the breath leaves her lungs as the urgent desire to kiss it – to kiss him right there, at the edge of the seam of his mouth – shakes her to her core.

  
No, Clarke, she orders herself. You are not allowed to think about him that way. You are not allowed to feel anything for him beyond friendship. It’s an unspoken rule of survival in these crazy times. Romantic relationships never last. Right? All the ones she’d ever had ended with people abandoning her, in the end. And while she knows that Bellamy would never, ever leave her, she can’t risk it, can’t risk losing him. He is the most important person in her life.

  
“What happened?” she asks. The timer on the oven goes off and she lifts out a pan of breadsticks. The smell of garlic and parmesan fills the kitchen. Her mouth waters. Bellamy clucks, hands reaching for them. She swats his fingers with the spatula.

  
“Sit,” she orders. “Tell me what happened, and I’ll get you a plate.”

  
Bellamy considers her a moment and she becomes aware of how much bigger than her he is, how masculine and delicious and desirable. He smirks, as if he knows exactly what she’s thinking, and approves. Before she can react, he bends down and presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek. Clarke places a hand over it, gaping at him as he retreats to the table.  
He sighs, and it deflates him until he’s lying with his cheek pressed against the tabletop, and his long arms stretched along the surface, away from him.

“It’s just the usual.” He groans. “O wants to move in with Lincoln, and I told her that she should be putting school as the priority right now. She locked me out of the house.” His eyes flutter closed. Clarke laughs.

  
“I’m sorry,” she says, when he looks at her curiously, “but your sister is absolutely diabolical.” She scoops some spaghetti on his plate, and then adds extra sauce to dip his breadstick in before carrying it over to him. He groans further when she grates some fresh parmesan over it all.

  
“You spoil me, Clarke,” he cooes affectionately.

  
She shimmies a little, for him, and laughs. “Someone has to! You’re such a good man, Bellamy.”

  
“No, I’m not,” he mumbles through his mouthful of food. “I know Octavia’s an adult now. I know she is, and that this is her decision, and I’ve got to stop trying to control her, but I just – I want her to be happy. To be safe. What if Lincoln breaks her heart, Clarke?” There seems to be an additional question in his eyes, something unspoken.

  
She considers him, sitting at her table. The dark curls, mussed with sleep, that she would do anything to touch. With a breath, she crosses the kitchen to sit beside him and does precisely that – she lifts a trembling hand to his face and combs the curls right off his forehead. They are softer than she’d imagined they’d be, and thick, so thick that her hand becomes buried in them.

  
Bellamy’s eyes turn molten. “Clarke,” he whispers.

  
“I think that, maybe,” she says, continuing to comb her fingers through his hair. Her heart bursts when he closes his eyes and leans into it, like an oversized, sleepy puppy. “Maybe this is something that she has to do. It doesn’t mean that you’ll be less family, or that she’s never going to speak to you again. But she does need her space to grow up. She has to make her own mistakes.”

  
He makes a guttural sound that rumbles right through her. Breathing is starting to become difficult. She can’t get past how unbelievably pretty he is. She can’t believe he’s in her kitchen, that she’s the one he comes to when he doesn’t know what to do. When did they become this important to each other? When had she become so needy for him?  
He licks his bottom lip and then presses his lips together. Clarke’s hand stills in his hair.

  
“What would I do without you, Clarke?” His hand rises to cup her cheek, then moves back to her neck, curling around it, a little possessive, a little hungry in the way he guides her closer, trying his best to be gentle. It takes her breath away, how badly he wants her. Her other hand grabs the front of his shirt and she clenches a fistful of it.

  
His head tips to the side, leaning in so close that if she moved even a fraction, their mouths would touch. Her hand slides from his hair to fall across his stubbled jaw. He turns his head then, presses an open mouthed kiss against her palm.

  
It’s only comfort, she tries to tell herself. This isn’t going to change anything. He doesn’t want you like that, it’s your imagination, nothing can happen here – oh. Oh!

  
He licks across her palm. When her brain reattaches itself, and her vision returns from the brilliant light he’d sent her to, she finds him looking up at her through his lashes.  
“What are you looking at?” she asks him huskily. Can she pretend that didn’t just happen? Can she be cool with this? Can she get him to keep going?

  
“I didn’t tell you the other thing O and I argued about. It’s not just her...moving out,” he says, his voice is so low, so soft, but it still roars in her ears. Or maybe that’s her blood. She tingles every place they touch, and every place they don’t. Clarke flexes her fingers, dropping his shirt, and she stands, flying up from the chair.

  
“Oh,” she says, “okay.” They are back on Octavia. Okay. That is fine. She is fine. “What else?”

  
He looks at her and looks at her and honestly, she doesn’t want him to ever stop. She wants to kiss him right in the hollow of his cheek, and there, underneath his ear, and across his freckled nose, and – and his large hands. She loves every callous, every scar on them.

  
Clarke runs her hands down her shirt, trying to smooth away the desire flaring through her. She’s practiced – she’s done it a million times. What’s one more time?

  
“Clarke, how long have I known you?” He stands, too. She shakes her head, not sure where this is going, but it feels like it is dangerously teetering out of “Friend” territory into something shockingly unfamiliar and splendid. She retreats a step. He follows. “How long have we been friends?”

  
“A long time,” she whispers. She’s surprised she can even get that out. He’s stealing her very ability to speak.

  
“And I told myself that it would be enough. That I’m not allowed to want you like – like anything more than that, because it was never the right time.” He takes a breath, and she retreats another step, until she’s against the wall, and he’s only inches away. “But it’s not, Clarke. It’s not enough.”

  
Clarke can’t help it; she whimpers, a little. “Bellamy,” she says, “I can’t – I can’t -” She doesn’t even know what she’s saying she can’t do.

  
He stoops until they’re eye to eye. “I don’t want to be friends.” His eyes search her face, flicker across her skin, down her body, lingering, wanting, pleading. He licks his lips again before meeting her eye again.

  
“I want to be more than friends,” he admits.

  
Both her hands jump to his stomach, to hold him off, or pull him closer, she doesn’t know which. But her entire body lifts off the wall, toward him.

  
“More than friends? Like – like,” she can’t finish the sentence.

  
Bellamy strokes the hair back from her face. “Can I please kiss you?” he asks.

He’s struggling as much as she is – she sees it in the way a blush warms his face, in the way he trembles under her hands. Does she do this to him? Is this all because of her? The power fills her, buoyant, loose, light, impossible. Could she honestly be this lucky?

  
“Bellamy Blake,” she says, and that’s when he can’t take it anymore – he crashes into her, all boy and impulse and need. He grabs her hands and holds them between them and drops his head to hers. He won’t initiate it – he waits for her. But he’s making needy little chuffing noises in the back of his throat, acts as though this isn’t close enough, and truth be told, it isn’t close enough for her, either.

  
Slowly, Clarke lifts her chin and lets her lips feather across his. It barely qualifies as a kiss. It is an almost kiss. She makes a noise of her own, wrenching her hands out of his to sling them over his shoulders – around his neck, yanking herself taller, higher against him. She jumps slightly and hooks her legs around his hips. Bellamy groans. “Clarke!”

  
His arms are there before she can even ask him to hold her. He hoists her higher against the wall, and this time she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause as she kisses him.

  
One time, she’d tasted this decadent dessert. It was some sort of cake rolled in a hardened chocolate, with a molten center within the cake, and her first immediate thought at the time had been that it was as delicious as sin.

  
Kissing Bellamy is even better than that. It crashes past sin to a place that is euphoric, pure sunshine and pleasure. Heaven. It is heaven tasting his mouth, the urgency of his lips as he tips and tips his head, trying to get a deeper angle, trying to taste all of her at once. She matches his urgency with her own, arching closer against him.

  
It is the most alive she’d felt her entire life. The most complete she’s ever been. How had she survived without this? How had she ever thought that she could only be satisfied as his friend?

  
She breaks away from him, to look at his face. He shakes his head, eyes still closed. “More,” he says, and kisses her again.

  
Clarke laughs between kisses. Bellamy’s hands are huge, spanning across her spine, shifting her against him, finding new angles.

  
“I want you like this,” he says, unable to stop kissing her, even when she lifts her head, gasping, head tipping against the wall. He drags his mouth across her throat, sucking on the sensitive skin under her chin. “I love you, Clarke. I want to belong to you.”

  
“Me?” she says, amazed. “Really?” No one has ever said that to her before. No one’s ever wanted her in the way Bellamy does. Everyone retreats from her. It doesn’t matter how much she loves them. They leave. Bellamy is the only one who has ever truly stayed, who understands her in a way that fits all her broken pieces together. The only one who wants to give her every piece of himself, trusting that she won’t break him. The amount of love and devotion behind that kind of trust is enough to make her cry.

  
She unhooks her legs from around his waist and slides down his body. He drops with her, as if bound, and kisses her forehead. The tip of her nose. The arch of her ear. The dip of her chin.

  
“I love you, too,” she says.


End file.
